This article was in a newsletter I get from Escapes Unlimited, a small travel agency in Orange County I've used a couple of times.
And they don't even mention the horrible onslaught of massive cruise ships everywhere. And they don't mention how the lovely Balinese town, Ubud, has been turned into a zoo since "Eat, Pray, Love." Tour buses bear down on the place every day to the point where there is gridlock much of the time. The way of life has radically changed and the culture. I doubt I'll ever venture back into the town. Fortunately, there are still places on the island you can escape the crowds but for how long?
I think of how our town would be if overrun with tourists —like it is for the Avocado Festival—every day. The last time I was in Laguna Beach will likely be the last time. No parking, crowds everywhere. Tourist buses. And not even during the Art Festival when you might expect the mobs.
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The Wall Street Journal recently had a story about the increased number of tourists that target the top vacation destinations worldwide. (May 22 by Rachel Pannett). Tourism is a mega-industry that has grown significantly due to the rise of budget airfares, more social media awareness that make distant places easier to navigate and an emerging Chinese middle class that now travels extensively. In Venice, Mallorca, San Sebastian and Barcelona there were anti-tourist demonstrations last summer. Tour groups had to be banned from parts of those cities.
It’s a difficult situation, especially for Third World countries that need the money that tourism brings but don’t want their special places over-run or destroyed. Cambodia and parts of Africa fall into that category. Thailand is talking about closing Koh Phi Phi island for part of the year. New Zealand has started a dialogue about restricting tourists by limiting Airbnb’s and Wifi. They attribute the increase in tourism to the “Lord of the Rings” series. Ten years ago New Zealand worked hard to get more tourists before the movies came out. Now it’s hard to find hotel space.
Chinese tourists numbered 20 million a decade ago. Now there are 60 million traveling to the world’s most desirable destinations which include many European cities, and parts of Southeast Asia.
Locals want tourists to be more sensitive to their culture and environment, be more aware of what behavior is appropriate. For example, in Bali, people never raise their voices, yet I’ve heard tourists from various countries scream across a hotel lobby for their spouse or fellow traveler. The Balinese just freeze in place when that happens. It’s so contrary to their way of life.
HAPPY TRAVELING! Roe & Daniella Escapes Unlimited 2012 Lerner Lane Santa Ana, CA 92705 800 243 7227
The photo prompt this week shows a daring group seated on a precarious rock.
My prairie-bound family liked things flat—the flatter the better. A mere mound in the landscape made my mother nervous. When she visited S. California and the mountains blocked her views, she was like a skittish cat. The only time she fully relaxed while visiting was at the beach, where she could see the open ocean.
There are no photos of ledges or lookouts or mountain climbing in my photo boxes. No thrilling moments were captured either. For our risk-aversive family, the Tilt-A-Whirl at the Royal American Shows was skirting the edge of dangerous. Reasons for not riding it included the possibility of it flying off the rails, tipping over and crushing somebody; vomiting; permanently damaging your equilibrium.
What I do have is this photo of me and my fellow CGIT'ers, Canadian Girls in Training, on a rock, at the Brereton Camp, Whiteshell Provincial Park, 1955. We were thirteen. I'm in the front row, left, looking like a ten-year-old.
It was probably this camping experience that turned me into a hotel gal for the rest of life. Using a stinky outhouse and hauling water wasn't my idea of a good time. The water in the morning for face washing and teeth brushing was shockingly cold. Night noises from the bush were scary.
This cartoon comes from the Alberta CGIT website. A new body image for the girls? Our leaders wouldn't have tolerated drooping socks. Our middy blouses had to be clean and neat. The friendship knot in our ties had to be correct. In my memory, the guides were leaders, but not tyrants.
I had to get a special dispensation from our priest in order to attend the camp because it was a Protestant organization—as if my Catholicism was so tenuous that I could be co-opted in a week. Actually, they were right! All my friends were Protestants and could take care of their religious duties in an hour per week. I envied them. No confessions, no Holy Days of Obligation, no fasting, no penance. At church, no kneeling, no Latin, no suffocating incense. The United Church, where I attended CGIT, was light and airy compared to our Catholic Church, dim and scary with curtained confessionals, strict unsmiling nuns and stations of the cross hung with bleeding, suffering Christs. As I recall, I was excused from the religious ceremonies at the camp.
At this age, I rarely smiled in pictures. A cousin told me I was going to be buck-toothed and I may have been trying to hide whatever it was he saw. Almost fatally homesick; this was my first time away from home for a week. My life-long friend Linda is at the other end of the front row and she looks happier than me. Looking happiest of all, is Fish—aka Mary Ellen Cuthbert—back row, right. Look at her upturned collar; her hand on her hip; legs jauntily crossed in a studied pose. I've written about her before. She was an outstanding character in our midst. A gal with a reputation later on in our teens. I can't imagine she was a bad girl at thirteen, but maybe. The photo here portrays a great deal of self-confidence, the exact opposite of me. I hope that confidence worked well for her for the rest of her life.
The Ode came from the camp website and brought back a lot of memories.
Ode To C.G.I.T. Camp Brereton, 1937-2007
Way back in the ‘30s this camp was begun By women and men, who, when they were done, Had built here a lodge, and a cabin or two, For campers and leaders like me and like you. To get here the campers then traveled by train, They walked from the tracks in the sun and the rain. In the 40’s they bused it right up to the door – What an improvement; could they want more? In the 40’s and 50’s the lodge was quite small, Can you believe, there was no dining hall! We ate in the lounge, and then should it rain, We’d collapse all the tables, then set them again! The water, we hauled it all up from the lake, No showers or flushes, and make no mistake We extinguished our lanterns when time for “lights out”, And we needed our flashlights to wander about! In the mornings we hurried to be first in line At the biffy – no privacy – three at a time! A wall at the end gave the leaders their side, “Twas just a two-holer- they sat with pride! Below the rock ledge you can now reach with stairs The cabins were arranged mostly in pairs, Please take the time to check out old Cabin 7, It’s just storage now – we thought it was heaven! Six bunks to each cabin arranged ‘round the wall, Each cabin with one leader, her whistle and all, Our leaders were given affectionate names, And mostly they all went along with the game. The ledge where your cabins now proudly reside Was called Council Rock, where our Pres. would preside Over meetings; and then, Bible Study was shared, And much more, as for campers and leaders we cared. If we wanted to paddle our own canoe We had to swim to the island and back again too, Off to the Ridge we would hike as we sang, And our voices would echo, and all the woods rang! International Camp Council was here in ’85, With 72 or us on site, it really came alive! From Nigeria and Trinidad, and yes, Bermuda too – Our “pathways” crossed at Brereton, and friendships came and grew. On our 50th we had a ball with campers re-uniting, The singing, laughter, fun and all was really quite exciting! And Cabin 1 has been improved, it’s own bathroom and ramp Have helped to make our Brereton a fully accessible camp! New roofs, and walls, and holding tank, a pump, canoes – a “Tree” Have all been added to this place – most, of necessity! But these aren’t the things that matter most, there’s a Magic that we see As girls and leaders share and grow into the persons God wants them to be. For 65 years at Brereton, we all can give a cheer In joy and praise and gratitude, that we still gather here. Our Tree of Life, and the names upon it, is a symbol of love for this place, God has blessed us richly ‘thru the years – we say “Thank You” for this gift of grace. So take your neighbor by the hand before the evening’s end, We want to bow and say a prayer to our never-failing Friend… Thank you for the Past… Thank you for the Now. Be with us as we grow to become the persons you would have us be. Amen. Addie Thoroski, Pat Finlayson July 1997, June 2002 Check out other Sepia Saturday stories HERE
At 75, you don't volunteer for the close-ups. But I liked a recent photo of Nancy, Barbara and myself, cropped myself out and fiddled on Lunapic in an attempt for something acceptable for a new Facebook Home photo. I'm going with the cellphone photo.
I love this rendering of the Woolworth counter—so neat and tidy without customers wo mess everything up. There's a sense of anticipation as if someone out of the scene stands at the door, hand on the handle, waiting for the clock to strike 7:00 a.m. when the store will open. I imagine a line of men wearing fedoras, smoking and reading the newspaper while they wait.
The scene reminded me of my own involvement in a "World's Largest" record-setting event.
Depicted above is was the World's Largest Creme Brulee. An official Guinness World Record, it was established through the combined efforts of the California Egg Commission, students at the Art Institute of Los Angeles and the Bel Age Hotel. The Guinness record used to hang on my office wall but has long since been consigned to a box along with other work memorabilia.
Here's how the "Big Brulee" got started. I used to give lectures about eggs on behalf of the commission ( I was a consultant) to companies, culinary schools, universities - basically whoever wanted me. Because the audience was usually young and fidgety, in order to keep them interested, I would try to work in a story and object lesson about Howard Helmer, World's Fastest Omelet Maker.
Howard established this Guinness record when he was about 30 and built a career around it. He recently retired, but had a marvelous time for 35 years or more working for the American Egg Board, traveling around the world, making omelets really fast, on television, at trade shows and state fairs. The purpose of his presentation was to teach the audience that eggs are the fastest food you can possibly imagine. He would teach, through a zany funny presentation, that in 40 seconds, you can have an omelet on the plate. After he completed his demonstration, typically he'd have a cooking set-up so that everyone in the audience could apply the lesson right away. I watched every imaginable kind of person walk away delighted with themselves and of course with Howard for teaching them this wonderful technique. nbsp;
The point I would make with the story is excellence. If you become the best you can be at something, the goodies in life are highly likely to follow: money, fame, respect. If you become the best in the world at something, even better. Depending on the audience, I would offer the commission's financial support for the group to make a Guinness attempt at any culinary record containing eggs.
This group of kids at the Art Institute of LA starting talking about what they could do better than anyone else. They told me they would "cook something up".
A week later, they came up with the Big* Brulee idea. The effort was spearheaded by their inspired teacher, Rick Royal. It took a lot of work: engineering to get the frame to support the weight, a special recipe which could be cooked in a huge steam kettle and a myriad of small details, certifications, insurance waivers, special witnesses required by the Guinness people. Most importantly, the young people had experiences they will benefit from for the rest of their lives. Determined to succeed, they hurtled forward despite bureaucratic red tape and various roadblocks. Worst of all for the students to overcome was the negative energy generated by the naysayers, skeptics and the ever-present lazy-ass people in life who sit on the sidelines chewing a toothpick and finding fault with the brave and gutsy people trying something new. Like fleas on a dog, these annoying kill-joys show up whenever there's something new afoot.
The event was held in 1999, on the rooftop of the Bel Age Hotel in West Hollywood and was an operational and public relations success. At the end, all of the chefs and students hitched up their blow torches and flamethrowers; brown sugar and raspberries were thrown all the surface by on-lookers, and the chefs blasted away at the top, fire skittering over the surface, scorching the sugar and making great caramelly bubbles. It was a dramatic grand finale.
A couple of news helicopters hovered around filming the event and we got pretty good press. The dessert was sold to guests for a nominal fee which was donated to a charity for homeless teenagers. Over the years, we (the commission) got a lot of mileage out of the event - for instance, we used a video loop of the event in the commission's booth at every trade show for years. The return on our investment was splendid.
In 2005, I got a call from a newspaper in Orlando where their Culinary Academy broke our record of 23.25 feet in diameter, by 2.75 feet. They used exactly the same format; copied everything- even selling plates of the dessert to raise money for charity which was their primary reason for the effort. As they say, imitation is the highest form of flattery. The reporter wanted to know if I had any comments to make. I offered the group my heartiest congratulations and told him while we'd enjoyed being Largest, records, like eggs, are made to be broken.
*Later I found out that being listed as the "Largest" anything can be dangerous. Occasionally we ended up on a curiosities list next to something like the world's largest tumor. Yuck.
I like to think the two ladies in the center of the photo, in bathing suits—we'll call them Katherine and Louise found themselves up to their knees in cold water. Cheesed off and full of repressed anger because of their itching and stretchy bathing suits, they lured the others in:
"Come on in, it's heavenly in here!" said Louise, lying through her teeth. It was damn cold and muddy on the bottom. Icky goo was squishing through her toes. "Tickety-boo," she said, in case her first remark wasn't sufficiently enthusiastic.
Katherine shaded her eyes and faced the camera so everyone could see her shirt bearing the logo of ...
Women's Auxilary Mounted Police?
Western Australian Marmalade Producers?
WinnipegAutomobile Motor Patrol?
Let's go with the Western Australian Marmalade Producers. Katherine stenciled the initials on her shirt for the annual picnic and plunge. The letters wouldn't come off after the big event and she certainly didn't have $5.29 for a new suit, so WAMP it was, crooked even, until time and wriggling in the mud, wore the letters off. She was soooo tired of explaining it to everyone.
(Or has that lettering been added to the photo post-printing? Could it be the initials of a frustrated photographer that couldn't resist plastering his name on everything?)
When Gregory, his wife Anne, and sister-in-law Charlotte with their three children pulled up from the road and saw the ladies in the water, Gregory said impulsively, "Oh, what the hell. Just hike up your skirts. I'll roll up my pants.We can leave our shoes on the shore. C'mon kids!" And in they all ran.
Abbie, the young daughter flung herself in dramatically and flopped onto her stomach. Little Binky and little Earl screamed in fright at the cold and tried to get out. Gregory felt like a fool but he wasn't apologizing for his haste, nor was he letting the little ones off the hook. He grinned through clenched teeth.
"Just smile into the camera and let's get this over with," he said.
Anne, his long-suffering wife, slowly raised her right hand every so slightly, carefully folding her fingers into a fist which she subsequently used to sock Gregory in the kisser—knocked that silly tam clean off his head. Later she said, "It felt like the right thing to do."
My family of Fortiers is simply sitting in the sand posing for the camera. I'm sure their suits itched too, but they remained calm. No story here.
While googling for information on those bathing suits I came across this ad.
1926 Men's and Women's Swimwear, Belts, Caps Shoes. www.vintagedancer.com
The advertiser, Charles William Stores, New York City, didn't waste an inch of space. "All wool worsted" is the most important sales feature. It's repeated over and over and over. Couldn't the copywriter have been more creative? I think the sketch artist did a great job on the models and I love the dense layout with the almost-diving gent, front and top, who gives a feeling of action to the whole page. Plus the roiling clouds on the horizon add to the mood.
I can't make out the rest of the background. The lady in the front left in the bathing suit that "dries quickly" (my eye!) seems to be sitting on a wave.
With my interest piqued about the store, I found a couple of Charles William Stores ads for other items online, mostly being sold on EBay. The Japanese pongee (a silk fabric) ad says "Quality Guaranteed by the Japanese government." I like the stockings with the dramatic vees up the heels.
A few more simple beach scenes featuring my family.
Grand Beach. A hot summer day. Grandmere in the water!!
Me, my mother Jill, Eilleen, Hector Fortier—my grandfather
Hector, my grandfather, would often be shirtless with suspenders, on hot summer days as he worked on the farm. His skin was leather-like, burnished from having been burned and peeled, burned and peeled. I have photos of him working shirtless with his beloved team of horses in the blazing sun. He'd be exposed all day. No skin cancer.
Although he smoked all his life, breathed in various kinds of fertlizers, worked in the fields—hard physical work—ate as much sugar and salt as he could get, ate fatty meats and cheeses and dairy products and eggs, drank alcohol and had a lot of stress (married to a woman who never stopped talking). He lived to be 96. So did my grandmother.
Ancestry: Paul-Hector aka Onesime Fortier died in 1979 in Winnipeg, Manitoba, Canada, when he was 96 years old.
Wade over to Sepia Saturday to read more stories of fun in the sun.
